


Dimming of the Day

by cofax



Series: This is Not Wartime [7]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: AU, Apocafic, Reunions, This is Not Wartime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-09
Updated: 2010-03-09
Packaged: 2017-10-07 20:01:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cofax/pseuds/cofax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Ammunition's easier to come by than coffee nowadays.</i>  Posted August 2004.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dimming of the Day

On the southwest corner of Webber Road and old route 53 is Red's Deli, where before the war you could get coffee, sandwiches, a selection of groceries, and Merry Lee's homegrown honey in sixteen-ounce mason jars. Wayne's old lab bitch barely lifts her head when Jack pulls open the door and steps inside. It's a small place: to the left are half a dozen sticky tables, to the right are a few empty shelves that used to hold instant coffee and chocolate bars.

 

"Hey, Wayne." Jack waves casually at Wayne and pauses to read some of the fliers posted next to the door.

 

Nothing new on the posting board, just the same stuff. Missing persons, will work for food, help wanted at Mantell's Farm, eggs for sale--ask at counter. And, of course, the big red notice about reporting suspicious activities to the Provisional Authority. What the notice doesn't say is that anyone who informs on someone rarely comes back, and if he does, he is . . . _different_.

 

No notices from the Seattle Grain Company. Not unexpected, but a little disappointing. Jack's not worried about Carter or Teal'c yet. Much.

 

Two of the tables are occupied: in the corner is a young couple, the woman thin and the man nervous, both of them poking at bowls of the soup that Wayne keeps on the stove at all hours now. The other customer is an older black man in a battered suit-jacket. A rolling suitcase is crammed between his table and the wall, and he jerks his head up when he sees Jack.

 

Jack nods amiably at the man and turns to the counter, where Wayne's slouched in a tattered lawn chair, working on a crossword. Wayne's about Jack's age, freckled and faded and mostly bald, his pot belly smaller now than it was when Jack started stopping by six months ago. Jack doesn't trust him, but Jack doesn't trust anyone anymore. It's nothing personal.

 

"Can I do for ya?" Wayne stands up and shoves his hands into the gaping pockets of his oversized khakis.

 

"What you got?" Jack leans forward to peer over the counter: there's a box down there that looks promising.

 

Wayne looks a little sly. "Not much. Got some corn meal, a little winter wheat, some eggs. Oh, and a case of canned peas."

 

"Peas?" Jack groans. He hates canned vegetables, and the weight of the cans is hell on the trip back up the mountain.

 

"Oh, and one more thing." Wayne leans across the counter, and drops his voice to a whisper. "Coffee."

 

"You're shitting me." Jack hasn't had coffee in over six months. He glances over his shoulder at the other customers, but they're oblivious.

 

Wayne smiles, revealing a gap that _really_ ought to be examined by a dentist, and pulls a paper bag out from under the counter. He opens it to reveal a smaller bag inside, dark brown with a familiar green seal on the outside. He holds the opening up towards Jack's face and nods encouragingly.

 

The smell is heady, strong and familiar, and Jack nearly groans at the power of it. Once upon a time he thought Starbucks was over-roasted and bitter. Once upon a time Daniel would walk through his door with a tall white cup in his hands because _your coffee sucks, Jack._

 

"How much?"

 

Wayne shrugs. "Whattaya got?" Everything's in trade, now. The war has reinstituted the barter economy, at least in rural counties like this one. Jack doesn't like to think of what they're trading for food and shelter in the cities.

 

He grinds his teeth and digs into one pocket. When he places the shell on the counter, it threatens to roll unless he keeps a finger on it. Wayne's eyes flicker, and he purses his lips. "That'll get ya a cup. A big one."

 

"One cup? Wayne, that's a--"

 

"Ammunition's easier to come by than coffee nowadays, John." And it's the truth.

 

"Yeah, all right." Jack heaves a sigh. "And some soup, okay?" He picks up one of the year-old magazines Wayne keeps next to the register and goes to the table closest to the window. He's never sure how long he will wait when he comes by Red's, whether any of his tenuous contacts will show at all. The June 2003 edition of People Magazine is limp with humidity and sticky with foodstains, and Jack flips through it unseeing.

 

If he tilts his head at just the right angle, he can see where Benson is hidden, keeping watch down route 53 for Jaffa patrols and other unexpected visitors. There haven't been any Jaffa out this way yet, but it's only a matter of time as they solidify their hold on the coast.

 

While he waits, the couple speak a few words to Wayne and leave. Jack watches them trudge wearily south, kicking up puffs of dust as they stumble along the verge. Even now, with almost no traffic to speak of anymore, nobody will walk in the middle of the road. Habit, or a reluctance to admit that things have changed for good. Forever.

 

Wayne looms next to Jack, and puts down a bowl of vegetable soup that sloshes over as the table wobbles. "Sorry." Jack grimaces and picks up the none-too-clean spoon. As he lifts the first spoonful to his mouth, there's a flash from outside, from across the road. Then another. A pause of one, two, three seconds, then two more flashes.

 

Okay, then.

 

He eats his soup hurriedly, ignoring the thin soapy taste. It's better hot, which is not to say it's good. As Jack finishes the last mouthful, Wayne places a chipped coffee mug on the table with far more care than he'd lavished on the soup. "Enjoy."

 

"Thanks," Jack mutters, and wraps his hands around it before dipping his head forward just to indulge himself in the smell of _coffee_.

 

The door bangs open, and Jack's eyes slide past the newcomer before he realizes it's Carter there in the doorway.

 

She drops her pack to the floor with a dusty thump that startles the black man by the wall. This time he spills his water, but Carter ignores him and crosses the room to Jack's table. There's a weary sway in her step, and it's clear she's been walking for a long, long time.

 

She's not blonde anymore: muddy brown hair hangs lank in her eyes. Her legs are bare, tanned and scratched under a pair of khaki shorts cut off just above the knee. The ragged fringe on the right leg of her shorts is a good two inches longer than the left.

 

"Welcome to Red's," says Wayne, and comes out from behind the counter as Carter lowers herself carefully into the chair across from Jack.

 

"Wayne, can I get some soup for my friend here? And another cup of this--" Jack taps his coffee mug. Wayne disappears into the kitchen, but the black man in the corner is glaring at Carter.

 

This is not the place for a debriefing, but Jack can't resist the wave of relief that hits him. "Good to see you, Jenny," he says carefully. He fishes a bottle of water out of his pack and hands it to Carter. Her fingers shake as she takes it, and she has trouble unscrewing the cap.

 

She drinks all of it, throat moving in rhythm as she swallows. The shadow of a healed bruise colors the right side of her face, and there are scabs and scratches on her fingers. Nothing on her wrists, bare under the dirty flannel shirt, and the tension in Jack's neck eases a bit at that. Except she's alone, and that's not good.

 

He opens his mouth to ask, but she gets there before him. "Kevin's dead," she says very quietly. Kal, she means, the way Jack is John and Carter is Jenny. Kal, who was smart and tough and her backup. But Jack can't ask what happened, not here.

 

He can't wait too long, though. Anyone who leaves and then comes back is suspect: Carter's not susceptible to the nish'ta, but Jack is short two goa'uld detectors now. And the stories he's heard--

 

"They have, um, babies, co-- John. And 'Kevin' was taken--" She meets his eyes for the first time. Shit. Security isn't just breached, it's _shattered_, if Kal was taken as a host.

 

"Your soup, miss." Wayne bustles up, startling Jack, and places Carter's bowl on the table with a lot more care than he had Jack's. Then another coffee mug. "Better drink that before it gets cold," he reminds Jack, waving at Jack's mug before leaving them again.

 

"For sure?" Jack takes a sip a sip of his coffee. It's weaker than he likes it, but he can feel his neurons firing faster after just one swallow.

 

Carter shakes her head and spoons the soup to her mouth, spilling a little back into her bowl. "No," she manages, and gulps down a large mouthful. "I--he's no risk now." She glances cautiously at Wayne and mimes pulling a trigger with her left hand.

 

_Oh._

 

He wants to be thankful, and sympathetic and supportive, because this is _Carter_, who's always managed to stay cleaner than he has. Carter never volunteered for black ops and betrayal, the way he did. But Carter went out into goa'uld-occupied territory and came back, and he's got no way of knowing if she's the only occupant of her battered body now.

 

She finishes her soup, watching him through her bangs while he drinks his cooling coffee. When the bowl is empty she picks up the coffee mug, and her eyes go wide. "Is it real?"

 

"Better be, for what it cost," Jack replies, and smiles at the way she hunches over the mug. If it's not Carter, it's a damned good actor for a snake.

 

 

+=+=+

 

 

When they leave, Jack's pack is heavy with supplies, including a nearly-priceless two-pound bag of ground coffee. He winces at the cost, but it'll be worth it for the look on Benson's face tomorrow morning.

 

Carter follows as he crosses the road and strikes west along the shoulder, dust kicking a little under his boots. It's been a dry, hot spring, and Jack's beginning to worry about water.

 

"Benson!" he says conversationally.

 

There's a rustle in the brush. "Nothing, sir, except for Major Carter there."

 

"Right. Cut across on Long Pete and meet us at the Wildwood trailhead. I've got something to do first."

 

"Yessir!" There's a soft crash and she's gone.

 

They keep walking west. It's another two hundred yards until they're out of sight of Red's Deli and can duck into the woods and head uphill to their rendezvous. Jack wonders if Wayne actually believes Jack's story about being a survivalist holed up in one of the hollows, but there's no way to be sure. For all he knows--no, Carter would have said. If she's really Carter.

 

"So tell me." He's got about half a mile before he has to make a decision.

 

She steps up to walk beside him, keeping pace easily. "The meeting was a bust. Aberdeen's gone."

 

He grimaces. "Setup?"

 

Carter shrugs. "Can't tell, maybe. There weren't any Jaffa there, but we were late anyway. They might have given up and gone home."

 

"What happened then?"

 

Her voice gets a little tighter. "We swung too close to Baltimore on the way back. It was my fault, but I thought--anyway, the truck broke down and I couldn't get it going again. We started walking, moving at night. Kal was casing a farm, we thought we might be able to get another truck, when the lights came up and there were Jaffa everywhere."

 

"Not good."

 

Her hands flex, but she says nothing.

 

"So you shot him."

 

"Yes. And then I ran, but the Jaffa were after me. I stole some hair dye, traveled at night, stayed low. Hitched a ride from Frederick with this one guy, but--" Carter's voice gets softer and softer, and she stops talking.

 

There's more to this trip than she's telling him, more than he thinks he really wants to hear. He can't let her linger on it. "So Kal didn't tell them anything?"

 

She stumbles to a halt then, and puts a blind hand on a fence-post. "Oh, god, Kal. I'm sorry sir, I just--I couldn't think what else to do! There were dozens of Jaffa, and they had a symbiote! Right _there_, they were going to implant him! I--god, I should have tried to save him!" Her face twists, and she swipes at her eyes with the heel of her hand. "I should have--"

 

"Carter, that's enough." Jack grabs her arm and shakes her, enough to make her meet his eyes.

 

But her gaze slides away, towards the ground, and she keeps shaking her head. "We don't leave people behind, sir, we don't give up--"

 

"Goddamnit Carter!" Jack yanks her, hard, and pulls her into the trees. She stumbles, but his grip on her arm supports her across the crumbling stone wall and into the wood. Jack slaps at the brush with one hand, hoping it's not poison ivy, and tows Carter for another thirty yards until they break out onto a narrow trail running east-west.

 

He lets go of her arm and brushes at the sleeve of her shirt, now stretched and wrinkled from his grasp. "Listen to me."

 

Opens his mouth, and nothing comes out. Carter looks at him, but she's glassy-eyed with shock and exhaustion, weaving on her feet. "Damnit. Sit down." He pulls another bottle of water out of his pack and forces it on her, hands her the treasured packet of trail mix.

 

"Sir, you can't, I'm a security risk--"

 

Because she is. His own protocols say so. She went out with backup, and she came back alone, and without Teal'c he's got no way of knowing.

 

Except she's bruised, scratched, and battered, and she just lost it because she couldn't save a captured comrade. And she keeps telling him she's a risk.

 

He says flatly, "If they'd taken Kal as a host, the entire resistance might have been compromised. You had no choice, and I would have done it in your place."

 

_Welcome to my world, Carter._

 

She doesn't respond, but the tension in her shoulder eases fractionally. Jack crouches on the dusty surface of the trail and opens the water bottle for Carter. When she won't take it, he picks up her hand and forces it around the bottle. She lifts it reluctantly and drinks.

 

"You look like hell, Carter," he says, when she's nearly drained the bottle.

 

"I know, sir," she replies, frowning slightly. He's not in the habit of commenting on how she looks, and it takes her a moment to get the connection. "Oh."

 

Jack reaches out with one grimy finger and taps the scabs on her right hand. "This, and this--" he touches the bruise on her cheek, "and this--" he waves randomly at her terrible hair. "No self-respecting snake would _want_ you, Carter, and if they got you, they'd at least clean you up."

 

She smiles for a moment, and his chest hurts: it's as if the sun came out. "But sir--"

 

"Oh, for crying out loud! I'll zat you, that make you feel better?"

 

She pops a walnut into her mouth, and another. "Actually, sir, it would." And he gets another smile, this one brighter than the last.

 

"Fine! But do I have to do it right now?"

 

Carter shrugs and keeps eating his walnuts. "Take your time, sir."

 

So they sit on the ground in the dirt, and Jack picks the M&amp;Ms out of the trail mix, and lets Carter sniff the precious bag of coffee grounds. The sun is hot on their backs, the sweat and dust sticky on their skin. Daniel and Teal'c aren't there, but they don't talk about that, and just for a moment, a fragment of time, everything is okay.

 

 

 

END


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